Ty Moy Teplo
by I am psycowriter
Summary: Ivan Braginsky's life is irrovocably changed when he finds an unconcious little boy on the side of the road.
1. Unexpected Incounters

**Hey, how's it goin'? Welcome all to my first multi-chapter fic that _isnt'_a series of one-shots. This fic is actually a set up for one I'm writing later, but I just really wanted to do it. I love Russia and Italy and I think Russia taking care of baby Ita would be adorbs. Anyways, I'm telling you now there will be hints of little Italy x little Germany (mostly through flash-backs though) so if you're not cool with that please back off. However, if you really wanna read, they're just tiny hints that'll hardly be there at all. **

**Disclaimer: I, and it breaks my heart to say this, do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

There is a sharp and and merciless wind attempting to stab at his prone body, but he's already gone numb. He cannot feel its furious bite and his dazed mind wanders back to what his life had been before he had ended up in his bed of powdered snow.

Memories press against his skull in an unsympathetic tide, shuffling thunderously through his brimming psyche. The thoughts shift in his mind in a whirlwind and seemingly random sensations fly in his head.

_His alarm is wailing in his ear- _or is it the gale rushing against his face in a violent parody of a caress?-_ the cotton of his Academy uniform is warm-_ freezing-_ on his skin. Mrs. Hungary's melodic voice drifts into his ears, teaching him about the world, Mr. Austria's elegant fingers on the piano and then on the violin, the feel of a slender paintbrush sliding gracefully in his fingers..._

_Distantly, he can hear Holy Rome calling his name (or at least the name he's known for the few years he's been in the Academy). _

_"Italy, Italy", he calls and Italy Veneziano flusters, pulling on the hem of his pleated skirt (something that was never quite explained to him, but oh well). Holy Rome's eyes are an indescribable blue and full of inviting warmth. _

_Italy really likes-_ really misses_- Holy Rome. _

And then the darker memories roll in, stromclouds tinged bloody red with the light of a vanishing sun. The glimpse he had gotten into his file when Dr. Ethiopia wasn't looking swirls slyly to the forefront of his conscious.

_Italy Veneziano (Real Name Classified)_

_Age Abducted: three_

_Current Age: six_

_DOB: March 17, xxxx_

_POB: Venice, Italy_

_Notes: Veneziano was taken from his home-_

And that's all he had read before the doctor took the file out of his field of vision. It's been a month (according to the plain, sad little calendar that had once hung above his bed) since this.

_The sharp prick of a needle sliding into his tender arm stands out vividly against the empty monotone of the rest of his mind and it really, really hurts. The strange liquid inserted into his bloodstream is like something akin to a raging fire and he really can't breathe because suddenly his lungs are constricting, until finally, mercifully, the black of unconsciousness takes him into it's uncertain embrace. _

_When awareness pushes him heartlessly into the light, he can vaguely recall whispers of _successful testing, _the _medication bringing up his intelligence, _and he wishes desperately to find a way to the bliss of sleep once more. _

Italy's eyes snap open at a particularly harsh blow from the cruel wind and finds that he can't really remember what he had been dreaming about (_had _he been dreaming?) for the past minute (or hour or however much time had passed). He is young, he is aware of this in the same way an aging man is aware of the many (too many) years that have left him weary and wrinkled. The thought of death is one that should be many, many years away (his innocent mind cannot fathom the thought of a sleep he will not wake from) and yet it stirs in the recesses of his brain, refusing to leave his thoughts.

And it is this that brings him irrevocable terror.

How is it that an hour (two hours, five?) ago, he was sleeping peacefully in his room, and now he lies in what he (despairingly) calls his frozen grave? Distantly, Italy wonders when (and how and why) he had been moved, wonders if anyone will come and save him before he fades with the frostbitten rays of the sun.

As the curtains of his mind begin to close into the dark relief of oblivion, the last thought to bow out is the hope that his body will at least be recognised.

* * *

It is nearing two in the morning when Ivan Braginsky begins to make his way home.

He shoos away the last few stragglers that stumble drunkenly through his family owned tavern and climbs tiredly into his car. The ride home is a long one, but he doesn't have to work the next day so he can attempt to sleep in. (He knows he won't be able to do it though, he just isn't meant for sleeping long hours, no matter how exhausted he feels). Personally, he blames his sleeping troubles on the chaos that was his childhood, but at this point it doesn't really matter.

With a last look at his tavern (he's already checked the locks thrice), he drives off. Ivan is the only one of his siblings who actually works in the tavern; his older sister is a nurse with her own place and his younger sister lives in a college dorm. He can admit (only to himself, in the velvet secrecy of night with only the stars as his audience) that he is lonely. Even though both his sisters are odd (his younger, actually, is quite terrifying), Ivan adores them.

However, they are no longer children with the world as their harshly rocking cradle. They've found a stable foundation and Ivan could never (even in his most Cimmerian moods) begrudge them that.

As Ivan drives closer to home (and further from civilization), the roads begin to become icier, the wind taps against his windows in urgency. His home is a humble but spacious, two story abode with three bedrooms on the second floor, a bathroom on both floors, and a small but comfortable kitchen that connects to a sparsely furnished living room.

He had been lucky to find such a comfortable little place in an isolated part of the country just a stone's throw away from the woods. Even if, on some (very, very rare) occasions it got just a tiny bit lonely...

Ivan's musing (and his car) comes to an abrupt halt when he catches sight of something on the road. He can't quite see what it is, but a sting of curiosity has already hit him so his steps out of his vehical. On closer examination, he finds what appears to be a puddle of semi-frozen red paint that, to his surprise, makes a trail that leads just a little ways away. When he reaches the the end of the trail, he freezes. He is a statue of blood and bone with his heart lodged painfully in his throat.

At the end of the trail of bright red paint (_not paint, oh God, not paint_) is a tiny, curled up bundle. It's not snowed recently and the little bundle is quite clear for all to see should they stumble upon it and to Ivan, it has a terrifying likeness to a small child. Now, while Ivan does not care much for children (or much of anyone for that matter), he would never wish harm upon one.

When the icy grip of shock finally thaws out he walks at a snail's pace towards what seems be a little girl. Ivan assumes the child is a girl as it appears to be wearing a pleated blue skirt (though why anyone would allow a young child to wear anything less than several heavy coats and thermal pants is beyond him). He carefully turns the young girl on her back, wincing slightly at how his hand dramatically dwarfs her sweater-clad shoulder.

Upon closer inspection he finds she has short, reddish-brown hair, one wayward curl hanging limply to the side of her head. She looks dangerously close to deathly pale and while Ivan _wants _to panic, he is not the type to do so, especially in a situation as critical as this.

He hisses sympathetically when he gently cups her cheek. Her skin, though soft, feels as if it were made of ice and an unyielding knot of concern forms in his chest when he feels her heart beating up a storm in her chest. She is not shivering. Ivan's medical knowledge is limited and the closest hospital is so far, Ivan fears the girl will not make it. His best option, he realizes, is to take her to his own home and consult his elder sister. It takes him a beat to realized that there is a splotch of scarlet on the girl's pale yellow sweater and he feels something like agonizing fury burn in his heart.

Without wasting another moment, he unwraps his scarf from his neck (no one is there to see the burns and scars and bandages anyways) and wraps it around the girls wound with cutting efficiency. He hoists her into his arms with careful deliberance (is she supposed to be this light?) and rushes back to his car.

His violet eyes are alight with fire and his determined jaw is set. When the girl is safely tucked into the back seat, he drives away with the urgency of soldier with a dying comrade.

* * *

**Welp. I hope you enjoyed that cuz it'll probably take me awhile to get the next chapter up. Like it? Love it? Wanna burn me in the fiery pits of hell? Review! I would really appreciate it, if you have the time, to review. It'll give me some perspective as to what you want and encourage me to write. Also my sight isn't very good (which makes proof-reading hella hard) so I'm sorry for any mistakes. **

**Good day/night**

**~Psyco**


	2. Unspoken Agreements

**So I've returned with a new instalment of this lil thing. It's not a very exciting chapter and it was kind of hard for me hard for me to write, but I've got it done. Hopefully next chapter will flow better and be up sooner. **

**Disclaimer: Seeing as I'm Mexican and _not _Japanese, I'm pretty sure I'm not the one who created Hetalia.**

* * *

His sister arrives not long after he contacts her. He's done what he could for the small child who now resides in his home, but Ivan is no expert and he fears for her life. The tiny girl (well, he's still under the impression the child is a girl) is wrapped tightly in thermal blankets, her skin looking ghostly against the dark material. Ivan can feel the gallop of his heart slow to a trot when his eldest sister, Irina, arrives. He does not hesitate to take her upstairs to his room where he left the child.

She is a beautiful woman. Her eyes are crystalline pools, her platinum hair cut to just beneath her soft chin. Irina is the eldest of the Braginsky siblings (Natalya, the youngest, being Braginsky-Arlovshaya) and her presence has always been overwhelmingly calming.

Her soft, kind eyes sharpen at the sight of the small, frozen lump in Ivan's bed and, immediately, she becomes the intelligent and efficient nurse Ivan knows her to be. The girl's wound is not as bad as he first thought, he learns later. The information is a balm to his akimbo nerves and relief swarms his veins; distantly, he wonders why he cares so much. He does not question why when Irina asks him to exit the room.

With impatience as his companion, Ivan waits downstairs for Irina to give him more information on the girl's condition. He is finishing his fifth lap around the couch (alternating between restless pacing and equally restless sitting) when he hears Irina's cat-like steps on the stairs.

"How is she?" Ivan asks with obvious restraint.

A spark of amusement lights Irina's eyes and her lips quirk into an oddly pleasant grin. Ivan, not finding humor in the question, scowls.

"_He _is going to fine after a while", she returns. At this, Ivan's frown turns neutral and his eyebrows reach toward his hairline.

"_He?_"

The nod he receives is all the answer he needs. Later, while Irina is making them dinner (and tutting about Ivan's sad eating habits) he searches through a box full of clothes that had been hidden in the bowels of his closet. On his adventure for proper-fitting clothes, he finds many relics from his past that he chooses to ignore in favor of the task at hand. Finally having found some items he thinks might fit the tiny boy, he asks for Irina's help to change him into clothes not damp with melted snow or crusted with blood. He realizes he should have done this earlier judging form Irina's chastising and disapproving glare. They tuck into the warm meal Irina had made (probably the first proper meal Ivan's had in _ages_) and fall asleep in uncomfortable positions on the couch after hours of comparing stories from their independent lives.

Irina leaves some days later, though with obvious reluctance. She leaves with Ivan a set of instructions to take care of child. They say nothing as they depart, their silence like a comforting blanket settled gently on their shoulders. They know each other well enough that words are unnecessary formalities, useless little grunts that cannot express the depth of their sentiment.

Their embrace lasts an eternity though only a handful of heartbeats have wandered by. Her smile is made of plastic and his is but a quirk of the lips. It is in their eyes that they're true emotions show. They will miss each other.

When Ivan ambles into his home, he wonders how he's going to go about this. The instructions his sister left him are fairly simple; all he must do is watch the boy's fever and exchange his bandages every hour. The minute he awakes, Ivan is to have liquids (water preferably) at the ready. The boy is not sufficiently injured to be in need of serious medical treatment and Ivan is left with antibiotics in case of infection as well as pain medication. He prays that he will not have to use the former.

* * *

Ivan has tasked himself with wiping the boy's flushed face with a cool towel. He is not Russian, Ivan realizes. His face is foreign, nose long and thin, and his frame is worryingly thin. Ivan feels as if he could break the boy with gentlest of touches or that the wind could spirit him away if not for the weight of a winter coat. His hair, colored something that is akin to rust blended with the brown of a copper penny, is chin length. From the left side of his head, a wayward curl waves cheerfully at him. Beneath the paleness of his ice-caressed skin, his complexion might have been a light tan.

Ivan wonders what his eyes look like.

His own eyes are colored like dull amethysts, Irina's look as if they were made of the clearest sapphires, and Natalya's perpetually hostile ones seem as if they could drown a man in their deep blue depths that occasionally flash purple.

He also wonders about the little boy's voice. Sometimes (much of the time) he wonders about his name. Ivan has little choice but to shrug away the questions that hang around his broad shoulders and concentrate on his task.

* * *

It is nearly three days later when the boy wakes.

Ivan is dabbing idly at the boy's cooling forehead when a soft groan pierces the silence. His vacant gaze (previously engaged in a staring contest with the pale blue wall) slides down in surprise to meet the exhausted, squinty amber eyes of his self-appointed charge. The boy's expression is clouded with confusion and pain, not at all surprising considering the situation.

Ivan attempts to usher the tiny child into a sitting position, though he worries his large hands are doing more harm than good. The young boy looks so very delicate and Ivan fears further injury. Once the boy is settled, Ivan hands him the freshly prepared glass of cool water that had been set on the bedside table. After the child finishes his fill, they stare apprehensively at one another, unnervingly pale amber eyes boring into concerned violet. The impromptu staring contest is brought to an abrupt end when the boy finally speaks.

"_Chi sei tu_?" _Dove sono_?" the boy asks in a lilting language that Ivan vaguely recognizes as Italian. His voice is soft and airy and is just high enough to be considered feminine.

"Sorry, I do not speak your language", Ivan says in accent-heavy English, hoping for the boy to meet him in the middle.

The boy tilts his head in subtle understanding.

"We can communicate in English, yes?" the boy queries, the lilt of his surprisingly faint accent coloring his words.

Ivan nods, feeling dumb with surprise and with not a clue of what to do. The boy has awoken, but he still appears woefully ill. The dark crescents under his honey eyes are terribly stark against his frightfully pallid skin. His trembling beneath the thick, light grey blanket makes the fragility of his tiny body sadly evident. This situation is not one he has dealt with before and he is uncharacteristically at a loss as to how to proceed. Ivan's thoughts are pierced by the soft flute of the boy's crisp voice.

"Excuse me, but who are you? And where am I?" asks the child. His face is a firm mask of apathy, carefully constructed so as to not let even a flicker of emotion shine through.

Ivan is impressed.

"I am Ivan; you are in my home in Russia", Ivan responds as soothingly as his weighted voice allows. "What is your name and what happened to you?" the Russian questions in return, the query a trade of information that he asks for rather bluntly.

The boy's retort is a blank face and his tone is a humorless deadpan.

"They call me Italy", the child called Italy says.

Ivan settles himself into his seat and prepares himself for what he sure is a fascinating story.

* * *

Time passes in indiscernible flashes filled with the gentle whisper of Italy's voice. He enjoys the subtle roll of his r's and the heavy stress of his tongue on a word it was not born to. Ivan finds that he is unexpectedly drawn to the boy's strangely moving tale. He is no older than six years though his intelligence harshly belies his short life.

Italy describes his life at an odd place he dubs the Academy, he recounts in excruciating detail the advanced education and dubious medication received in the unknown location that had been his home for about three years. He briefly mentions a kind woman he knew as Miss Hungary, a stern but talented man called Mr. Austria, and a lovely boy slightly older than himself who was Holy Roman Empire. Ivan feels oddly sympathetic towards the boy who had not known the warmth of a true family.

His sisters come to mind, Irina's sweet smile and Natalya's intense gaze; this boy knows not the rainbow of emotions that comes with having shared blood. For this, Ivan pities him. Looking into Italy's exhaustion-thinned face, Ivan decides that even if he cannot be blood, he can at least be family.

Ivan's violet eyes meet the delicate amber of Italy's. Just before the young boy slips into the careful cradle of sleep, he and the Russian come to an unspoken agreement.

It is an agreement Ivan intends to keep.

* * *

**Yeah, that was it, sorry. Anyways, feedback would be nice if you have the time and I hope you liked this chapter. **


End file.
